INSTBTH  Lives Remodeled
by Semebay
Summary: Takes place roughly a month after It's Not Supposed to be This Hard. Contains a new carpet and rug burns. Lots of rug burns. And a look into life after fae.


Arthur had never known that life could be so peaceful. Adapting to Alfred's presence had been easier than he ever would have thought, most likely because the presence of another in the house that had been empty for so long was a relief and a blessing.

Of course, Alfred was not one to sit back and let things continue on as they had done before.

No.

As soon as he had the chance, he started to change things.

Starting with the hardwood floor in the living room.

That was the reason that Arthur was standing to the side and watching in silence as Alfred helped the driver of the delivery truck bring in a large rolled-up carpet, its deep blue reminding him of Alfred's eyes (though he would never admit that fact to the other).

The truck driver looked impressed with the house, and when he set the carpet down, he nodded to the two men.

"Someone's gonna like the new rug," he said, ogling at the large staircase. "I'll bet the wife'll be happy."

"She's wanted a bit o' change for a while," Alfred nodded, jumping right in. "An' you know what they say: she ain't happy, you ain't happy."

Arthur couldn't help himself. He bristled where he stood behind the driver, and he crossed his arms as he sent a glare in Alfred's direction. Alfred looked impressed with himself, and he smiled back at him.

"I'm hoping that the new carpet will make up for the movie a couple weeks ago," Arthur found himself saying. "We watched _Signs. _Terrified her. She's been moping around, so I'm hoping that the new carpet she's been complaining about will perk her up." Arthur paused as the driver looked back at him with an expression of understanding. "She said the hardwood was too uncomfortable to lay down on when she was watching a movie."

"Women," the driver sighed, shaking his head.

Arthur mirrored his actions, sighing with him. Alfred was looking at him over the driver's head with an expression of horror and confusion, and Arthur shrugged.

The driver wasted no time in leaving, taking his large truck and starting back down the drive.

And Arthur was left with Alfred.

"Did I just turn into the wife?" Alfred asked in shock, and Arthur looked up at him.

"I think you did," Arthur told him bluntly, then he left to examine the new carpet.

Alfred watched in silence as Arthur carefully used a box-cutter to remove the plastic that bound that carpet, and after a moment he joined him, moving into place to unroll the mass.

"Twenty feet, right?" Alfred asked, and Arthur nodded. They moved as one to unroll the carpet, pushing it up against the wall and measuring, cutting corners to fit it in the odd edges of the room. Alfred complained loudly about odd angled walls, but Arthur simply ignored him.

"I mean,, c'mon, this must be fifty degrees or something!"

"Shut up and cut!" Arthur snapped, working on the opposite end of the room. Alfred grumbled something under his breath, waiting impatiently for Arthur to finish so that they could check to see that everything was in order (and he had to toss the scraps of carpet outside to dispose of them, and vacuum up the bits inside).

"There!" Arthur pulled the scraps from the carpet away and shoved them towards the center of the room, near the trashbin that had appeared sometime during their measurements and cutting. Alfred watched in silence for a moment, then he picked up the scraps and shoved them in the bin before leaving to dump it in the trash can outside.

Arthur was prepared to go to the kitchen, to make himself a cup of tea, but Alfred had already returned (his speed got on Arthur's nerve sometimes; especially when he wanted a moment to himself to just take a breath). Arthur watched as Alfred dropped down onto the carpet and rolled around, and he wondered how in the hell the man had become sheriff.

"This is nice," Alfred moaned as he rolled across the carpet. Arthur leaned back against a chair and pursed his lips. The sounds that Alfred made were very… _sexual_ in nature, and he wondered if he was doing it on purpose (it was hard to tell; the American was so _oblivious_ at times). "Shag is overrated," Alfred said when he finally stopped rolling around, and he laid on his back, staring at the ceiling. He had never noticed the little stars carved into the wood panels; they were nice. "_This_, this is nice."

"Of course it is," Arthur said with a sigh, and he pushed off the carpet and to his feet. "I'm getting a drink," he said, but he didn't make it far; Alfred grabbed his ankle and he fell to the floor, not expecting the sudden movement.

"Enjoy the carpet," Alfred told him seriously, staring.

Arthur was lying facedown on the carpet, spread-eagled on his stomach. He had his chin resting on one arm, the other laying to his side after he had extended it to break his fall. Alfred's hand was still wrapped around his ankle, and he looked back over his shoulder to glare at the man.

Alfred could only see Arthur's eyes (and his impressive eyebrows) above his shoulder when he looked back, and boy, did he look _pissed._

Then Alfred realized what was going through the older man's eyes, and he raised his eyebrows.

"Wait, Arthur, don't," Alfred started as Arthur sat up slowly. "It's a new carpet, an' I'll get burns, an' –AGH!"

Not much could be heard over the grunts and moans in the living room. Neither man heard the front door open, nor did they notice the perverted giggled in the direction of the hallway.

The only warning they had was an "A-ha!" as Francis jumped into the living room, Matthew behind him and trying to look anywhere else.

Francis looked far too impressed with himself as he pointed, his nose held in the air and his mouth going a mile a minute. "I knew you couldn't last two weeks without jumping the poor boy, Arthur, honestly, and you always thought _I_ was perverted? Ha!"

Then Francis finally looked at the scene before him.

He certainly didn't expect what was waiting for him.

Alfred was gasping for breath, his glasses hanging off an ear and one arm outstretched, his face a bright red. He was on his stomach, and Arthur sat on top of him, looking undisturbed by the events, yet scowling at the presence of the Frenchman.

"Fucking frog," Arthur huffed, surprisingly out of breath despite his pristine appearance.

Francis was at a loss for words, and Matthew finally risked a glance.

Arthur was holding his brother in a headlock.

Alfred looked exhausted, as though Arthur had been trying to squeeze the life out of him.

"What the hell _happened?_" Matthew said in shock, taking a step forward. He could see where Alfred's shirt was beginning to stretch beyond its limit, threatening to tear, and Arthur looked at him with an expression of disdain.

"He knocked me over."

Matthew nodded, not really understanding, but not sure of what to say. "Then… it's on Al?"

"Exactly." Arthur ignored Alfred's grunts from beneath him, and Francis smiled hesitantly.

"Maybe you should get off him?"

"In a minute," Arthur decided.

Alfred's struggles seemed to become more insistent at that time, and he grasped at the carpet as he tried to speak. All that left his lips were muffled grunts, and Matthew frowned at him.

"I.. uh…" Matthew looked at Arthur again. "I wanted to know if you guys were coming for drinks? Gilbert said he was bringing his brother along."

"Sounds fine to me," Arthur said. Alfred tried to add something, but the hold that Arthur had around his neck was making talking difficult. "Should probably eat first."

"Why?" Alfred finally managed to croak.

"Never drink on an empty stomach," Arthur told him without looking down. "You get drunk faster that way; more likely to have a hangover."

"Not that it makes a difference with you," Francis said bluntly.

"Belt up, Frog," Arthur snapped. He finally stood, releasing Alfred and listening as the man took a deep breath and buried his face in his folded arms. After a moment of listening to Arthur and Francis bicker, he groaned and rose to his knees, then to his feet.

"You okay?" Matthew asked, and Alfred shrugged.

"I probably deserved that."

"Ah…" Matthew looked back towards the two men that had migrated towards the kitchen, fighting over what was best, whether they should have more fiber or grains, and finally whether Arthur should cook or not (Alfred sincerely hoped that Francis won the last one). "So… Is everything going okay? You didn't even tell me you moved in. Someone else was in your apartment."

"My bad," Alfred shrugged again. "I moved in a month ago."

"That's when Megan got your old apartment?" Matthew cocked an eye at him, and Alfred grinned.

"Isn't she cute? She said she wanted to be independent and not rely on a boyfriend." Alfred looked proud. "She's smart."

"Smarter than you at least," Matthew grumbled, and Alfred pretended not to hear.

"Did you know Arthur plays guitar?" Alfred changed the topic. "He's awesome! Course, I tried to get him to play something by Bon Jovi but he told me, _I don't play that American shite,_" Alfred said, trying to imitate Arthur's accent. "I mean, c'mon! Bon Jovi's totally awesome! Better than the Rolling Stones."

Matthew didn't bother pointing out that being from England, Arthur would obviously like UK bands over American bands. He simply decided to wander back into the kitchen and see who had won the fight for the oven.

* * *

><p>Francis had won the battle for the kitchen, and had presented them with an excellent chicken alfredo prior to their trip to the downtown bar. Mathias had been overjoyed when he saw Alfred, and had invited him over to the bar to show him a new shipment of alcohol (some fruity thing he had offered to Arthur first, but Arthur had brushed it aside and demanded the "good stuff").<p>

"This is good," Alfred decided, and Arthur glowered at him from across the table.

"I don't think cops are supposed to enjoy strawberry-flavored alcohol," Arthur said dryly. Alfred seemed to think it over for a minute, then he shrugged and raised the bottle to his lips once more.

"I don't think anyone would care considering I'm better than them," he shot back.

"I'm not sure breaking your supervisor's arm in a training exercise is considered being "better" than him." Arthur swished the alcohol in his mug. "It seems to be more of a self-control issue."

"Really?" Alfred said curiously. "Never thought of it like that."

Arthur just tsked and continued drinking, trying to ignore as Gilbert began to pound on his back in an effort to make him snort his beer. His stoic younger brother looked uncomfortable in his chair between Gilbert and Francis, and his eyes kept returning to Alfred.

After a while, the glances (from the newly introduced Gilbert and Ludwig, as well as Mathias) began to get to Alfred. He set his beer down on the table and looked between the three. "Something wrong?" he wondered, and Gilbert leaned forward on the table, shifting it and almost knocking Francis's beer into his lap.

"Your face," Gilbert said slowly, and Alfred wasn't sure if his slow way of speaking was from the alcohol, or because Gilbert thought he was incapable of understanding spoken language (he really hoped it was the former, because he wasn't that stupid despite what everyone else might say).

"What about my face?" Alfred said carefully. He had to force himself to keep his hand from reaching up to check his face.

"Half o' it's all red," Gilbert drawled, and Francis suddenly laughed.

"_That_ is a rug burn," Francis said loudly. "When Matthew and I arrived, he and Arthur were… _getting busy,_ on the new carpet in the living room."

Alfred stared blankly at Francis as the others burst into laughter, Arthur scowling and downing another beer. Then Alfred turned bright red.

"Wha- no! No no no! He wasn't- I tripped 'im, and he got mad and tried t' beat th' shit outta me! I swear!"

No one was really listening. They were all laughing (or, in Francis's case, using the distraction as a chance to grope Alfred's twin). The only ones not joining in the fun were Arthur (who had somehow commandeered a couple bottles of whiskey) and Alfred (the rest of his face had turned a bright red to match the rug-burned half).

Alfred hid his face behind a bottle and tried to drink in an effort to blame his flush on the alcohol. He wondered if Arthur was doing the same with his alcohol, though Arthur seemed fairly experienced in knocking back shots and bottles, so it was highly unlikely.

Alfred stared at the surface of his drink and tried not to crack a smile that he was sure they would take apart, bit by bit, with Francis deciding that it was of a perverted nature. He didn't look at the laughing people, but he did risk another glance at Arthur, his eyes following the curve of his lips, the familiar scowl darkening his features.

Then that smile, ever so briefly, lifted into a grin, and Alfred dove for his drink to get his mind off of it, or at least to hide his face. It burned now, an uncomfortable feeling that made him aware of how close Arthur seemed, even if he _was_ across the table (and in _public_, no less).

Alfred drank more and more, failing to remember the numerous classes at the academy warning about the… _unfavorable_ effects of alcohol.

He was more concerned about trying to erase the image of a grinning Arthur from his mind.

* * *

><p>"Wh' th' fuck're you th' driver?" Gilbert slurred, his head lolling slightly as he watched his brother attempt to fit everyone into his car (Gilbert had always wanted an SUV, but his brother had this <em>thing<em> about "green" vehicles).

"Because I only had one beer," Ludwig grumbled. It was hard to concentrate on transporting your brother's friends when one of them was constantly trying to grope you, and another had this need to argue and whine about everything you said (especially in that _god-forsaken _accent, which only seemed to worsen as time went on instead of getting better).

"Why one?" Gilbert reached out and pulled his brother into a hug, then slid out of the car and onto the ground when he couldn't keep his balance. "Y' gotta stick in y'r ass," he said, and Ludwig had to pick him up and shove him back into the car, fastening the seatbelt around him in an attempt to keep him _in_ the car.

"I remember _you_ talking about driving home before we left," Ludwig explained, though he wondered why he even bothered. "There's no way in hell that's happening considering you can't even sit straight."

Gilbert just laughed, and Ludwig glanced in the back seat. Matthew had been shoved into the middle of the front seat (thank _god_ he was a quiet drunk), and the other three in the back seat were either clingy, stand-offish, or… perverted. Francis kept making passes at Alfred in the middle, who was clinging to Arthur as though his life depended on it, all while Arthur was sending curses and hits over Alfred's head at the Frenchman (though he wasn't sure if those were actually curses; as he had noted before, the heavy accent was terrible).

It was getting out of hand. Ludwig shut and locked the doors (even activating the child safety locks), and then settled into the driver's seat, prepared for a fairly quiet trip to rid him of the excess baggage.

If only it had worked out like that.

"He's touching me!" Alfred wailed into Arthur's shirt, fisting the material in his hands.

"Git yer bloody hands off o' him!" Arthur snapped, trying to grab Francis's hair so that he could smash his face into the back window.

"Will you shut up?" Ludwig called back, but he was ignored by the fighting foreigners, who found it far more pleasing to vent at each other.

"Well, well, mAYbe we should do something fun then," Francis offered. Ludwig wondered at his apparent sobriety; he only slurred every fifth word, though every so often he had this odd habit of inflecting parts of his words. "I have it! Stories!" Gilbert perked up.

"Like th time Lud-"

"No, no," Francis shook his head. _"Fun _stories. You remember that house you told me about? In Cumberland?"

"Th' big one? With th' pool?" Gilbert had a dreamy expression on his face, and Ludwig narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He checked the rearview to find that Francis looked content, if not downright suspicious.

"I lIked that one," Francis told him, and Gilbert grinned.

"Righ', righ'… So, there's thi' big house in Cumberlan', with a pool an' ever'thin'. Cool place, like a, a mansion 'r somethin'. So, this girl goes inside th' house, an' sh' finds an ol' necklace. Pretty, with diamon's an' shit. So anyway, she wears th' necklace, but then some guy starts followin' 'er. Really cool, handsome, shit like tha'. An' she likes the dude. Real looker, 'r somethin'. So they go out, an' eat an' party an' shit. Then one nigh', they're hangin' 'round the pool 'r something, real quiet-like. An' he's puttin' the moves on her, an' 'e calls 'er Anna (I tol' you 'er name was Lin'a, righ'? 'Cause 'er name's not Anna). So she gets all pissy like a bitch, thinks 'e's cheatin' on her, shit like that. An' then 'e starts sayin' they're married, and all kinds o' crazy shit." Gilbert looked back over his shoulder. "You're listenin', righ'? 'Cause I'm not repeatin' this shit."

"Contin_ue_," Francis pressed.

"Righ'. Cool. So 'e says they're married an' shit, and then she calls 'im a psycho, and his head falls off into th' pool. Then 'e grabs 'er arm and jumps into th' pool with 'er, and they never get seen again. 'Cept when you look into th' pool, and 'er reflection looks back a' you. Creepy shit."

Alfred suddenly screamed, and Ludwig almost veered off the road.

"Gonn' get me!" Alfred shouted, and Arthur's curses and threats for Francis to "keep yer bloody paws off 'im before I break 'em!" were drowned out by the sound of his terror. Ludwig didn't dare look back; he didn't know why Alfred was screaming about the ghost tapping his back, and he didn't _want _to know. He glanced in the rearview once more to see Francis _leering,_ and decided that he should simply keep his eyes on the road and hurry to get rid of the extra passengers.

"Tol' you Artie had an awesome house," Gilbert drawled as they made their way up the long driveway, to the two-story house that was lit with tiny exterior lamps. "Friggin' big. Bu' not as awesome as _my_ house."

"You live in my basement," Ludwig reminded, but Gilbert was talking to the dashboard and couldn't hear him. He parked and attempted to extricate the trio in the backseat, but Francis and Alfred made it difficult.

Arthur was more than happy to leave the confines of the car, but his progress was seriously impeded by the arms around his midsection, those of an overly-affectionate Alfred. While it would have been easy to simply yank Alfred out, there was the added challenge of Francis, who was trying desperately to hang onto Alfred's torso, making the tangle of bodies almost impossible to pull out of the backseat.

Until the other door opened and Francis was pulled out the other side by a very mellow-looking Matthew. Ludwig blinked, then Arthur pushed past him, trying to shove the American off him. Ludwig waited for the others to get away from his car, nodded to the thank-yous that Matthew and Arthur offered; then he got the hell off the property.

"We're tak_ing_ the guest room!" Francis bellowed as Matthew pulled him up the stairs, and Arthur locked the front door.

"Get off," Arthur grumbled as he took on the stairs, Alfred still holding onto him tightly.

"Bu' he'll pull me into th' water," Alfred whined. Arthur pulled himself up the stairs with the banister, trying to disentangle himself from Alfred's arms. "Arthur!" Alfred whined. "Can I sleep in your room tonight?"

"No!" Arthur snapped, but Alfred's wide eyes were quickly wearing down on his defences.

And he was drunk.

"I've work tomorrow," Arthur mumbled, just to fill the silence. He couldn't hear anymore from Francis or Matthew down the hall, and wished he had the willpower to send Alfred to his own room. However, he was already stumbling to the bed (Alfred clinging to his waist), with the intention of sleeping away his drunkenness.

He fell into the bed, Alfred following and burrowing under the covers and cuddling up beside him. The American was silent, though he would prod at Arthur's arm and chest with a finger. Arthur finally turned on him, ready to demand he stop, but Alfred simply looked at him with wide eyes and tilted his head. Then he smiled.

"Love you."

"Go to sleep," Arthur grumbled, turning his face into the pillow and taking a deep breath.

* * *

><p>"Where's Arthur?"<p>

Alfred looked up from the table as Francis walked in, looking prim and proper despite the dark bags under his eyes. It was still early in the morning (6:37 when Alfred last checked the clock), and he imagined that the Frenchman had a terrible hangover (especially since Arthur had one; luckily, Alfred felt fine).

"He's working today," Alfred told him as he dipped his spoon into his cereal and then returned it to his mouth, delighting in the sugary taste of Lucky Charms.

Francis wrinkled his nose at the breakfast. It wasn't something he would ever place inside his mouth, and he could only imagine how awful it tasted.

"Let me make breakfast." Francis was already searching the cupboards, set on cooking something even with his horrid headache, but Alfred simply shook his head and continued to eat. "Oh, please! Anything I make is better than that _thing-_"

"No offence or anything, but you'd probably throw up in the pan." Alfred took another bite of his cereal. "I mean, you're all… Hung over, and stuff."

"And you're not?" Francis looked a little put out by the revelation. "Why is it always only me? Even Matthew doesn't-"

"I don't what?"

"Get hangovers," Alfred supplied. "Lucky Charms?"

"Sure."

Francis watched in disgust as the two brothers sat down to eat, and he shook his head. "How on _earth_ can you eat that?"

"Like this." Alfred dipped his spoon into the bowl, pulled it out laden with milk and cereal, and shoved it in his mouth. Then he chewed loudly.

"Do you want me to make pancakes?" Matthew asked, looked at him worriedly.

Francis looked between the two and sighed, giving in. "No, no… It's fine." He sat down. "Just pass me the milk."

* * *

><p>Alfred had always found his days off incredibly boring. He was used to working eight to eight, PM to AM; then to working five to five, AM to PM. He had given up the night shift because he only had a few short hours to spend with Arthur, playing board games, watching television, just <em>being together.<em> He found more enjoyment in it than going to the fairs he had loved when he was younger (though if he could take Arthur to a fair, that would be _amazing_).

Shifting his work shift from eight to five was better, because they could hang out until Arthur became tired. Alfred woke at three-thirty and got ready for work in the bathroom downstairs, and waited for when Arthur would slowly wake up and make his way down the staircase and stumble into the kitchen, and the waiting breakfast. When Alfred wasn't in a hurry, he insisted on making eggs and bacon for them both, with tea for Arthur and coffee for himself; they would eat, and Alfred would hug the still-drowsy Arthur before leaving for his car at five-of-five, where he would spend most of his day chasing speeders and helping the victims of domestic abuse. It was a boring job at times, but it was worth it. Seeing how the children looked at him with respect and admiration was worth the shit he took from the criminals and the people he apprehended.

When lunch time rolled around, he made it a point to stop in at the bookstore, to lounge around in the café with Arthur until it was time to go back on duty. There were never any intimate gestures; no kissing, no hand holding, no hugging. The only times he got away with hugs were when Arthur was drowsy, or when he watched a scary movie and had to sleep with Arthur in order to keep him safe.

Then work ended at five, and Arthur's bookstore closed at seven. Alfred could stop in at the bookstore and stay until closing time, helping repair old shelves, or just talking about the happenings of the day with Arthur and drinking coffee with Megan (Arthur, of course, had tea and a scone). And when seven rolled around, they locked up, returned home, and stayed up until ten, talking, playing, or (Alfred would never admit to this being one of his favorite things), Alfred would listen as Arthur played his guitar, sometimes soft, sometimes loud and seemingly out of control, but always with emphasized body movements, and with his all.

But on days off, the schedule was different. He had had one day off before, and had spent it in the store. But Arthur had quickly kicked him out, saying that he needed "fresh air" and to relax on his day off, instead of spending it working in some old bookstore. So Alfred had been left to wander around the city, stopping in at different stores to try their free samples, and eventually buying a CD of songs he imagined Arthur playing, his fingers flying over the strings and a small smirk on his face.

Days off were no fun if they weren't on the same day as Arthur's.

Francis and Matthew left a few hours after breakfast, having to get back to their own lives, and Alfred was left home alone to play video games and wander the house. He destroyed aliens, wandered the large garden behind the house, sat on a large rock by the fire pit, made burgers for lunch, and then returned to killing aliens on the television.

And all the while he waited for the sound of a car in the driveway, for the sound of Arthur returning home from work.

When he finally did hear the tires on asphalt outside, he almost jumped up and ran to the door to greet Arthur. But he restrained himself, and remained on the couch, only turning back when he heard Arthur's feet on the new carpet.

"I do like the blue," Arthur decided as he glanced at the new addition underfoot, then dropped onto the couch beside Alfred. "Mixes well with the grey, not too overpowering."

"Yeah," Alfred hummed, not sure of anything else to say to that. Arthur took the remote from between them and clicked through the channels to find the news, and he listened attentively as the weather came on.

"You might want to start thinking of a vacation," Arthur said as the meteorologist paused. "I have a few weeks off in a couple months. See if you can find some time off."

Alfred nodded and looked briefly at Arthur before turning his attention back to the news.

The two sat in silence for a long time, and Alfred finally looked back over at him. "Are we dating?"

"That's the premise," Arthur said bluntly. Alfred nodded and looked back towards the tv.

"It's funny," Alfred muttered. "We do all kinds of things together. We've slept in the same bed a couple times, we go places together, we do stuff, but we've never kissed. Isn't that weird?" Alfred was prepared to continue, but then there was warmth at the corner of his mouth. As quick as it had appeared, it was gone. He looked over at Arthur quickly, but the Brit seemed unconcerned.

"Kisses aren't that big a deal," Arthur told him.

Alfred blinked a couple times, touched the corner of his mouth with his fingers. Sure, the actions felt slightly… _feminine,_ to him, but he certainly hadn't expected it.

And the corner of his mouth was just unfair.

"That doesn't count!" Alfred blurted when he found his voice, and Arthur looked over at him with a blank expression.

"Really?" He acted as though Alfred had just told him it was going to rain on Monday.

"Wasn't a real kiss!" Alfred decided, but then Arthur's hands were on the sides of his head, pulling him closer and touching their lips together. Alfred wondered at how his face burned at the sensation. He had wanted to crash their lips together, but Arthur barely touched him, only touching him so that he could just feel the contact.

Arthur didn't even pull his lips away to speak, so they brushed against Alfred's mouth and chin. "What about this?" he wondered, voice low, and Alfred gaped.

"T-this works," he stuttered, and Arthur pecked his lips.

Then the Brit sat back on the couch, pulling away and turning his attention back to the television. "Dr. Who or Scrubs?" he asked as though nothing had happened.

Alfred simply moved his lips wordlessly, and Arthur nodded.

"Dr. Who it is, then," Arthur decided.

_God, he loved him._


End file.
